We sit down to dinner.  The wounded officer, whose wound in the temple has affected the muscles of the left cheek, eats as though he had a bit in his mouth.  I roll up little balls of bread, think about the dog licence, and, knowing the ungovernable violence of my temper, try to avoid speaking.  Nadenka looks at me sympathetically.

Soup, tongue and peas, roast fowl, and compote.  I have no appetite, but eat from politeness.

After dinner, while I am standing alone on the terrace, smoking, Nadenka’s mamma comes up to me, presses my hand, and says breathlessly: 

“Don’t despair, Nicolas! She has such a heart, . . . such a heart! . . .”

We go towards the wood to gather mushrooms.  Varenka hangs on my arm and clings to my side.  My sufferings are indescribable, but I bear them in patience.

We enter the wood.

“Listen, Monsieur Nicolas,” says Nadenka, sighing.  “Why are you so melancholy?  And why are you so silent?”

Extraordinary girl she is, really!  What can I talk to her about?  What have we in common?

“Oh, do say something!” she begs me.

I begin trying to think of something popular, something within the range of her understanding.  After a moment’s thought I say: 

“The cutting down of forests has been greatly detrimental to the prosperity of Russia. . . .”

“Nicolas,” sighs Nadenka, and her nose begins to turn red, “Nicolas, I see you are trying to avoid being open with me. . . .  You seem to wish to punish me by your silence.  Your feeling is not returned, and you wish to suffer in silence, in solitude . . . it is too awful, Nicolas!” she cries impulsively seizing my hand, and I see her nose beginning to swell.  “What would you say if the girl you love were to offer you her eternal friendship?”

I mutter something incoherent, for I really can’t think what to say to her.

In the first place, I’m not in love with any girl at all; in the second, what could I possibly want her eternal friendship for? and, thirdly, I have a violent temper.

Mashenka (or Varenka) hides her face in her hands and murmurs, as though to herself: 

“He will not speak; . . . it is clear that he will have me make the sacrifice!  I cannot love him, if my heart is still another’s . . . but . . .  I will think of it. . . .  Very good, I will think of it . . .  I will prove the strength of my soul, and perhaps, at the cost of my own happiness, I will save this man from suffering!” . . .

I can make nothing out of all this.  It seems some special sort of puzzle.

We go farther into the wood and begin picking mushrooms.  We are perfectly silent the whole time.  Nadenka’s face shows signs of inward struggle.  I hear the bark of dogs; it reminds me of my dissertation, and I sigh heavily.  Between the trees I catch sight of the wounded officer limping painfully along.  The poor fellow’s right leg is lame from his wound, and on his left arm he has one of the variegated young ladies.  His face expresses resignation to destiny.